Snegurochka
by Trans-Siberian Railway
Summary: Three-shot: She is very old, older than some of the birch trees she looks after in the forests. But she and I know the truth. It is as burned into our minds as the frost braided through Siberia. Russia/America slash, past Russia/notreallyanOC. R&R!
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Whoever you are, reader, thanks for clicking on my story! I hope you enjoy my dabble into Russian folklore...which means, yes, there are technically no OCs in this. c: And is a three-shot a three-shot, or a very small story? O.o Confused I be.

Warnings: Swearing, some blood.

Summery: Three-shot: She is very old, older than some of the birch trees she looks after in the forests. But she and I know the truth. It is as burned into our minds as the frost braided through Siberia. Russia/America slash, past Russia/notreallyanOC. Please R&R!

Disclaimer: I, Trans-Siberian Railway, do not own Hetalia: Axis Powers, Russia/Ivan, America/Alfred, or Snegurochka. (She's a very popular character in Russian folklore, so while I've put my own spin on things, I can't claim her.) Please don't sue.

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><p>Russia should have known better than to challenge him, out here in the dead of night, in the middle of a <em>Russian forest. <em>How he managed to build a log mansion in the middle of nowhere and still get power was completely over America's head, and Russia spared him an explanation. Nevertheless, in place of a stimulating conversation on the wonders of electrical energy, Russia decided that a good ol' round of Let Us Pick On Each Other Because We Are A Couple And Nothing I Say Will Provoke Any Sort of Dramatic Response (Because We Are A Couple) was in order.

Oh, how wrong he was.

As hyperactive and fun-loving as America prided himself to be, his manliness stopped short of snide comments and low blows. He didn't care who it was coming from, his brother or his boyfriend, _no one _called him cowardly. And laughed at the same time. And then expected him _not _to take him up on that challenge.

Because when you're in a relationship consisting of two sets of balls, sometimes the battle is on to see whose are bigger, and America was no exception to this rule. Especially when the challenge was, in a distinct Russian accent, that Alfred "would not be able to walk across the yard and back without a rescue helicopter somewhere in tow."

Alfred felt the blow deep. So, he could go through civil wars, depressions, two World Wars, and come out as probably the best nation to ever exist—he thought he was pretty damn cool, if he said so himself—but he couldn't _walk across Russia's yard? _Who the hell even _said _that? Sure, it was _freezing as holy Hell_ outside, and it was dark, and they were surrounded by an even darker forest, and there was about three feet of snow in the yard alone, and it was _still snowing, for fuck's sake_—But that wasn't exactly a death sentence in America's book.

So, in a fit of testosterone-induced rage, America commented that his rescue crew shouldn't quit their day jobs, grabbed his coat and boots, and proceeded to make the easiest trek—and ego boost—of his life. All with a big smile.

That is, until he got lost. ("Fuck my life.")

He had absolutely _no idea _how this could have happened. Where the hell did America think he was going? He just had to walk across the _yard! _But of course, Russia's magical electricity apparently didn't include porch lights, or any kind of barrier to separate his "yard" from the birch forest. America remembered on arrival that Russia had some sort of frozen stream at the top corner of his property along with a shed, so headed in what he assumed was that direction. If anything, he'd smack into the shed or break the icy river, but at least he would win, and he would have known where he was. Which, at the moment, he didn't.

Because after minutes of distracted walking, sidestepping trees, and plowing through snow, America turned back _once_, just to get his bearings—and, of course, could not see even one lighted window where Russia's house was supposed to be. At one point he tried following his footsteps back, but the snowfall was turning into a blizzard, so that didn't work. Then America decided it was within his rights as a pissed off nation to roar at the top of his lungs in complete, utter irritation and kicked at nearby birch tree.

Or, he _tried _to kick. Just as he raised his leg to inflict righteous anger on all things nature, a great gust of wind and snow swept him off balance, he fell and rolled. And kept rolling. And kept rolling. And kept rolling, until—

_CRASHBAMSNAP_

"_Fuck!_"

_Who the hell put a hill here?_

America forced himself to roll onto his back despite the red-blinding pain in his thigh and opened his eyes, tears of pain and rage almost freezing against his cheek. The sky, from what he could see through the trees and snow, was pitch black and studded with stars, just barely welcoming him to the wilderness as the blizzard raged. The little dip he managed to fall into offered some protection against the wind, but not enough to diffuse the real fear America was starting to feel. With a grunt, he forced himself up on his hands and tried to inspect the damage; a sharp breath let him know that walking would be torture, much less trying to scale a steep hill. His hand came away from his thigh warm and soaked and coppery. Blood. Great. And all over the new pants Russia got him for Christmas.

Russia. He should have noticed by now, right? Surely he would come after America after a few minutes of senseless waiting. His yard wasn't that big—as America learned, unfortunately. He would find him. Hopefully.

Hopefully…and now, America was scared. Really scared. And, he hated to admit it, really helpless. His thigh wasn't broken, he knew that, but it was bad enough that he doubted he could make it up the hill with one leg dangling behind him. If he even managed _that_, there was no way he'd be able to walk through the snow, or drag himself through three feet of it. If the blizzard didn't get him first, he wondered how long it would take for some hungry animals to smell the blood. Or if Russia could beat them to it.

_Shit…_Well, as screwed as he was, he knew better than to just sit in the snow and mope until the blizzard swept him up. Taking off one of his scarves—he needed, like, four out here—America wrapped it as tightly around his injured thigh as he could and felt around for the massive hollowed log that was unfortunate enough to break his tumble. Grasping the thick, frozen edges in the dark, America was able to haul himself inside, making sure to keep his hands just inside his coat sleeves and wrapping his remaining scarves around his head to ward off splinters. America kept to one side, keeping his throbbing thigh out of harm's way, and laid his head down against the hard, but dry, bottom of the log.

And waited. For Russia. Maybe for death. He didn't see how it mattered at this point, he was borderline stranded.

At least he wasn't being bombarded with wind or snow anymore, even if it was just as mind-killing cold inside the log as it was outside, the kind of cold that ripped teeth and nails through one's skin like wet paper. And the bleeding felt like it stopped, though that didn't explain the continued, internal throbbing…which meant, God forbid, he sprained something. And his femur, nonetheless.

Damn. He really was screwed. Worse…there wasn't much he could do about it, and the fear America had been harboring since that realization came to him was starting to spread from his mind to his body. His muscles, his limbs, his skin knew what was happening, what was bound to happen come morning. He was shaking everywhere, unable to ward off the cold even after he wedged his hands under his shoulders and tried to blow as much hot breath over his chest as he could in the small space he had. America couldn't even curl up, not with his leg the way it was.

He was never one to give up, and even as the resolve froze into his bones, America still had the faint hope that maybe, just _maybe_, he would get out of this. Russia would find him. Or he would still be alive in the morning, and he'd fight his way up that hill, injured femur be damned. He had worked too long and pined too hard for these weekends with Russia to let all his efforts go to waste because of one dumb move. He'd find a way to survive. He always did. But just for good measure…

America angled his head towards the end of the log, where the blizzard raged evermore and the birch trees cracked under its rage, and screamed until his voice cracked:

"_Ivan!_"

The blizzard stopped. No. It _halted_. Completely.

America choked, dumbstruck. "What the…"

He couldn't help but stare, trying to pick out some movement with what little light he had, thinking maybe the cold was finally getting to him, or maybe he lost more blood than he thought. But America's head felt clear, if numbed. He swept one hand gently over his makeshift bandage. No more new blood. No reason for him to be hallucinating. But also no reason for a raging Russian blizzard to halt without reason.

Maybe he _was _dead—

Snow crunching. Did America really hear that? Or was it a tree? But—no, it was definitely snow, and treaded snow, sounds that came bouncing back to his frozen ears in a perfect, two-step rhythm. His muddled brain went into overdrive—joy, confusion, relief. Maybe it was Russia. Maybe he really heard him. If only he could _move—_

America screeched, shooting up like a rocket with no where to go. His head slammed against the top of the log, and in his brief moment of fight-or-flight, completely forgot that his femur was a no-show when it came to running.

But what else was he supposed to do, when a face was staring at him through the end of the log? A face that was _definitely not Russia's_?

He had to calm down what blood he had left to get a good look at whatever apparition decided was necessary to scare him half to death…and was amazed that he could _see _it. Or _her_, more specifically.

America didn't know what godly mystique was making her glow in a pale sort of way, but he didn't mind as much as he thought. She was the first thing he had been able to see all night, and his survival-mode brain was appreciating the change. From what he could see in his wild-eyed onceover, she was breathtakingly beautiful. A small face, as luminescent as snow off a full moon, ice-blue eyes that were oddly warm—if just as confused as America's—and curls the color of winter sunlight, tucked under a silver fur cap. America was stuck between backing away as quickly as possible and falling to his knees at her feet.

She stared at him, her eyes wide, mouth open like she wanted to ask him many of her own questions. America swallowed.

She held out her hand instead. And, without one suspicious thought or another—_what the hell?_—America took it. Maybe he was dead, and this angel was just here to give him a hand wherever nations went when they died—

"You are not dead, американский," she said, and her voice jolted America once he got back to his good leg, so much that he had to grab hold of a nearby birch tree for balance. But she smiled at him, hiding a laugh under a silver mitten.

America's head swarmed with senses: dizziness from being upright, the new wash of pain as blood flowed downward towards his wound, the appearance of this strange young woman…

"Hey," America croaked out, trying to meet her eyes without losing his mind, "did you, uh…stop the blizzard?"

"Oh, yes," she said, smiling once more. America noticed she was wearing a very old-fashioned cloak, 1800s style, complete with fur-lined cuffs and a fox-fur cap that sparkled with the same kind of bluish-silver aura she seemed to emit. "I heard you scream. For a moment…ah, I apologize. For a moment, I thought you were someone else."

She waved her hand, as if dispelling the thought…or hope. Then America realized she was on the other side of the dip, farther from him than he realized.

Her soft, genuine smile was back, and America decided, weakly, that he liked this strange girl who came from nowhere. "Well. It does not matter now. Maybe it is better I found you, instead." She glanced down at America's thigh and winced. "Or you might not have survived the night."

"Yeah…" he murmured, "probably not. Thanks…"

"No need," she said, and her voice reminded America of bells in the wind. "But, if you do not mind…what is an American doing out here in the Russian wilderness?"

The Russian wilderness. Russia. Ivan. How long had America been gone now?

He didn't know if this stranger could help him back to Russia's cabin, but he couldn't find a single reason not to be honest with her. America was already baffled by the fact that he was so calm around her, despite the blizzards and the sprained femur and the frostbite. Telling her who he was didn't seem like his greatest concern, especially if he wasn't going to see Russia again.

That killed him a bit. The idea that he might not see Ivan before he passed out cold, here in the middle of a forest, in front of this ethereal girl who looked, physically, no older than a teenager.

"I'm…" _swallow_ "I'm…I was just fooling around with my…my boyfriend, and—" _fuck don't cry be a man fuck _"—I got…lost, and, yeah…_this _happened. Oh, um…my name's Alfred F. Jones…United States of America…nice to meet you, ma'am…"

God, did he hate this sentimental bullshit. And in front of a girl, no less.

She gasped. "The…the _United States of America_? Ah…Mr. Alfred…I am truly sorry. Had I known there were people about, I might have eased the storm sooner."

He tried to smile. He really did, despite the cold. It was hard not to. "Nah, it's…it's _all right_. Wasn't your fault…"

"No, it is," she said. "I was not paying attention, even though Winter warned me…I will help you back home, do not worry in the slightest. Who is your lover, Mr. America? Where is he?"

"He's…" _Yeah, where is he? Where are you, Ivan? _"R-Russia. Ivan Braginsky. Heh, weird, huh?" He forced a chuckle. "Seeing your own nation with me—"

"Stop."

America looked up, confused. The young woman covered in silver was as still as the air, stiff, her eyes blown wide with emotions America could not identify this far away. He thought her lips trembled. Or maybe it was just the glow.

She opened her mouth, and America had to strain himself to hear her whisper, "Russia? V-Vanechka is here?"

_Vanechka? _America gaped.

Did…did this girl and…and Russia…They _knew _each other? _Vanechka? The fuck?_

"You know Van—Ivan?"

Before America could press her further, she waved her hand once more. Flippant. Which, in any other circumstance, America might have believed without a second thought; but America only acted so oblivious for the public and meetings. Now, though, stranded in the forest with a sprained femur, America felt it wasn't within his survival skills to ignore anything his potential savior was doing. That included masking the slight wavering in one of her hands, or the constant diversions, or the fake smiles.

"Do not worry…just a stray thought."

She was lying. America could tell.

He swallowed down the frozen block in his throat, forgetting, for a moment, that he had stumbled upon one of the fastest growing, strangest situations ever in his long life, and that said something. Because, for some strange reason, this girl's presence made him feel…light. Protected. Strangely human. And now he worried about her.

"Are you okay?"

She nodded, smiling gently, her blue eyes twinkling in the darkness. America found himself calmed by it.

"Of course, Mr. America," she said. "You have nothing to worry about. What is more important now is getting you home to your Russia, safe and sound." She lifted one hand, and the glow began to disappear. Then the blizzard, which had been going about its course around them like an inverted snow globe, descended upon America, and the strange girl in silver and white was lost to him.

America panicked. He opened his mouth to scream as what looked like a huge, impenetrable white wall of snow rose up from the top of the hill and encased him, and he thought—

_She lied. She's gonna kill me, she's gonna kill me, she's gonna kill me—Ivan!—Ivan!—Help—! _

And then he was falling. Again. He didn't even realize the snow wall had lifted him from the ground, so quick was the attack. But _something_—the snow wall, maybe, or the girl—had maneuvered his body to his side, on his good leg, and he didn't quite _fall_. More like he was _placed _in three feet of soft, log-less snow, the only pain in his femur from the quick sting-and-burn of rapid-fire snowflakes on his open wound. He wondered, briefly, where his scarf went, squinted in the dark to see if he could find it—and realized he had no idea where he was. As completely out of wits as he was at the bottom of the hill, the lightness of the snow, the placement of the trees he could see, the fact that he was on flat land with _no _evil logs…Where was he?

He snarled and beat at the snow, shouting, "What's that about _helping me, huh_?"

Then America was covered in a warm bar of light. He whipped around, not caring about the strain on his femur, and almost cried with relief.

"Alfred!"

Russia, standing in the doorway of his home, looked very much like an angel with the light shining behind him. But even in the welcomed glare that encased most of his body in shadows, America could still see Russia's eyes, blown wide with fear and love alike, as he sprinted down the porch and across the snow like a bulldozer. America didn't even care how much pain he was in; once Russia was down on one knee, America lunged upwards and wrapped his arms around Russia's neck and refused to let go.

"I'm sorry," he murmured as Russia lifted him, being very careful with his bad leg.

"Shush," Russia whispered, pressing his lips against America's temple. For once, Ivan was felt so warm against Alfred, so safe. So worried— "I have a medical kit inside. Let us get you warm, da?"

"Y-Yes…"

Russia jostled him, just slightly, with the barest hint of anxiety under his playful tone, but it surprised him nonetheless. "Now, now, my little Alfred. Do not fall asleep on me so close to home."

Home. America looked up, saw the beckoning, golden-brown warmth that was Russia's log mansion, and sighed as the first yellow flares licked at his frozen body. He could curl up there if he wanted to, close his eyes, defrost in Russia's arms. Sounded nice.

Which, it seems, he might have done, for not moments after they were both safe and sound in Russia's living room, America woke up. But not really. He might have been awake the entire time, body erect and moving on command to the distant echoes of Russia's voice, but it seemed the ice went farther down in America's bones. Into his blood. To his brain, where a young woman's lilting, silvery voice kept him half out of this world, and the only thing that jerked him back to full wakefulness was the sudden burning pain in his leg.

America hissed, tried to squirm away from whatever was hurting, but then Russia was there, clamping one hand on America's lower back, the other on his knee.

"Hold still," Russia said, "I need to check if you broke the bone."

America glanced around him, half-dazed. They were in Russia's bedroom, _their _bedroom, and America was sitting on the edge of the bed, Russia on the floor inspecting his thigh. Ah. Yes. He was out of the storm, and out of his head.

Russia, though, was very much in his own world. Kneeling between his legs with a jumbo-sized first aid kit, his violet-blue eyes were sharp, focused, always flickering about America's injury with a purpose. He looked nice like that, America thought. Trained on something without any malice. Moving with intent. No shadows lingering under his touch as he kneaded America's thigh, checking what was swollen and what was frozen. Despite the pain, America felt a sudden need to reach down and push his bangs back, if only to see his eyes more.

Russia took out a series of wraps, cold packs, scissors, and safety pins, and America remembered that he was a patient.

"D'you think it's broken?" he asked.

"Hmm, no. Very badly bruised, could be sprained. I cannot tell. But, thankfully, it is not broken. I can nurse a sprain, but I do not think you would take kindly to resetting bones." Russia smiled.

America snorted. "You're sadistic."

"Sometimes," Russia purred, tightening one of the bandages with a grin. But his voice dropped as he went on, as did his expression. "Consider it punishment for making me worry."

Worry?

America considered Russia with a slight frown, lacking any real fire since he was too cold and weak to produce any, but the ramifications were not lost on him. Russia's face had lost its handsome focus, his fingers their strength. He worked on America's leg half in the world, half in unknown possibilities. It bothered America.

"Why didn't you try to find me, then?" America asked, his ire dulled only by frozen betrayal.

Russia shook his head. "I was about to when you did not return after five minutes…but General Winter stopped me as I made my way out the door."

America lifted an eyebrow. "Why?"

Russia sighed, looking relieved if not a tad guilty. "He said you needed to be alone. And that he would take care of you."

"I…thought you hated him."

"I do," Russia said, kissing the uninjured side of his thigh with more reverence than America gave him credit for. It made him blush, that was for sure. "But my personal feelings aside, he has never lied to me. So when he told me you were safe, I believed him. Worried my way through three bottles of vodka, but I believed him nonetheless."

America gaped. "But…" _That girl…_ "Um. Okay. But, uh…General Winter didn't save me or anything."

Russia cocked one eyebrow.

America swallowed, remembering _Vanechka _and a slew of other things he wasn't quite sure he liked. He fisted the old-fashioned quilts beneath him. "It was a girl. In the forest. I…don't think she was human." The shivers began, but America ignored them, opting instead to try and pick out every single little thought that flickered across Russia's face.

Right now, he only read suspicion.

He tilted his head. "An animal?"

"No…I think she was a spirit. She felt like one." America remembered the light she brought with her, the warmth, the purity. "Fur coat. Fox cap, I think. Blue eyes. Beautiful, really—"

_There_. The emotion. Waves of it. Eyes full of it. Poignant realization. Russia's face turned over on itself, his mouth hanging open with lost words, eyes flickering back and forth on America's face with reckless searching.

Checking if he was lying. Wondering what to say. And, perhaps, looking at someone else's face entirely.

Russia was shaking. America could feel his hand squeezing his knee, the bad-leg knee, and he tried to wince the grip off.

"She…what…" Russia stuttered.

America swallowed. "Do you know her? She saved me, yeah. But she called you, um…Van…Vani…

"Vanechka?" Russia stared at him under his bangs, violet eyes poisonously hopeful.

America deflated. He knew that look, so he nodded.

And Russia knew his looks as well. With a knowing glance, Russia's demeanor switched from twitchy to serious. He cut away a stray wisp of bandage, cleaned up the kit, and tossed a few logs in the fireplace Russia had built in their bedroom. Then, still stiff, he walked back to America and wrapped him up in quilts and blankets, throwing his jacket over him for good measure. America wished he was selfless enough to appreciate it.

Instead, he stared. And even when Russia sat behind him, pulled America against his chest, he still had to ask: "Who is she?"

Russia turned away with a frown, and America watched with childlike fascination when Russia's purple-studded stare burned a hole through the window; and it was then that America knew, in a burst of empathy that came with being a New World nation, that Russia did not look out of place in this huge, antique house in the middle of a storybook Russian snowstorm. As much as Russia hated it—and hated to admit it—his white-cloaked wonderland of a country was as much a part of him as the Wild West was to America. And America was learning that a nation could not force a change onto his people and hope for the best. That was their bosses' jobs, and nations did not have the luxury of reconstructive surgery. They changed with their people, and more often than not, were happy to do so.

"Snegurochka. Her name is Snegurochka."

America could hardly repeat the name in his head much less say it out loud. So he smiled instead. "She's beautiful. Like, _gorgeous_. Prettiest thing I've seen since Audrey Hepburn. She'd be a hit in the States."

Russia slowly turned back to him, leaving the blizzard to its holler. He wasn't frowning anymore, but he was almost expressionless when he fixed America with another one of those creepy stares—the kind that didn't smile but didn't provoke, and America was the last person you wanted to be ambiguous around. But whatever Russia was looking for he must have found, because the corner of his lips upturned and something _bitterly amused_ shined in his eyes. America was uncomfortable with it.

"Yes," he replied, his gaze dropping to America's wrapped thigh. "She is very beautiful. She always has been."

There was something in Russia's tone. They hadn't been going out long, no, but America knew him long enough to pick out abnormalities, Russia's rare ticks could be called such. He was an abnormal man all around, America knew that, too. So maybe it wasn't so much a shadow of insanity that bothered America so much to stare, but that it was a shadow of…sanity. Real, normal pain that everyone knew and understood, the kind of pain that did not induce bouts of madness or unparalleled fear. The kind reserved for beautiful nostalgia, for people eternally wanted but understandably gone. It made America rage with jealousy, that someone—not he—could induce that kind of sad loveliness in Russia's eyes. A real, lyrical poignancy. And America really wanted to hate it, to hate this stranger whom Russia pined for…but he found his resentment was strangely liquid, and once Russia leaned over to adjust his bandages, America's mood calmed.

And he just _had _to ask: "Dude, just tell me now. Have you two shacked up?"

Russia looked horrified.

"Look, it's not like I'm _jealous _or—eh, fuck that. I am," he declared. "She was super sweet, and when I mentioned you she seemed pretty damn surprised. And—I'm not sure what else. And then your reaction, y'all must've been close, and—"

And he had to stop. There was no way around it, not when Russia's face fell so quickly America was worried he broke his mind, and he felt more like an asshole when Russia didn't tell him to stop. Just sat there with is head on America's shoulders, listening, getting lost in thoughts America wouldn't be able to touch with a mile-long pole. Grieving, maybe. America thought he saw something gloss over Russia's eyes. It could have been a trick of the firelight, or the reflection from the storm. But America swallowed nonetheless, and he dropped his voice to a whisper.

"What happened?"

Russia blinked at the floor. "I forget things sometimes. Like an old man, I guess, but then again, I am older than you. I forget how close you and England used to be. He and his imaginary friends and—" Russia tensed up, as frozen as the storm outside, then sighed when America laid a hand on his arm. "And you and your ghosts. Sometimes I forget. I should have known."

America didn't like the direction this conversation was going, especially the double-meaning that too often layered Russia's speech. Then Russia covered America's hand with his own, and America wanted to lean forward and press his cheek against that hand for no reason at all. No reason at all. Not even when Russia fixed a violet-blank look on a landscape painting by the door. America never noticed it before: a brown and white Siberian forest. Probably the same one outside. Miles and miles of birch trees.

"She died a long time ago, my Snegurochka."

America blanched. "Was she, uh…a _ghost_?"

Russia smiled. "No, not exactly. She was real, once, and very much alive. But this land," a sweeping gesture around the room, through the indigo-paned windows and into the birch forests, "fell in love with her, too. There was not much we could do, once the forests heard her voice.

"Her story has changed over the years," Russia began, breathing in fragrant wood smoke and plush quilts. "It is not surprising, of course. She is very old, older than some of the birch trees she looks after in the forests. But she and I know the truth. It is as burned into our minds as the frost braided through Siberia."

Even with three quilts and a too-big sweater thrown over him, America felt exposed. The swirling smoke clouded his head, sent winter pricks of the mind's eyes across his skin. Russia observed him through the colorless glass reflections, sitting on guard through the snow.

America leaned into Russia's shoulder, shaking against the still wind in his bones.

"I…What happened?"

Russia turned, pressing his forehead against America's neck. He breathed against Alfred's heartbeat, hot and fast against his lips. Russia opened his mouth for a second too long, debating between speaking and sucking hard on America's pulse.

His heart won.

"She was born," he began. "That is what happened."

And her story began.

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><p>AN: So this puppy is, definitely, going to be a three-piece baby. And to dispel any lingering concerns, yes, Snegurochka is not an OC. Here's a famous painting of her, and what I used as my basis for creating her character: http: (doubleslash) lettersfromalaska (dot) files (dot) wordpress (dot) com/ 2011/ 11/ vasnetsov (underscore) snegurochka (dot) jpg (Just get rid of spaces and whatnot.) She has many myths, and she's very interesting. I'd suggest looking up her stories.

**I know people get annoyed when writers ask for reviews, but I really wouldn't mind reading them, be it constructive criticism or just a stop by. c: Even a one word review keeps me writing at my best.**

Thank you so much for dropping by!


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: So! Here's chapter two! :D I don't really know how many people are reading this, or even interesting, but for those few that are: here you go! I hope you enjoy it!

Warnings: Sadness, if that's considered a warning.

Summery: For Snegurochka as a young woman was nothing short of extraordinary. And Russia, probably the most self-destructive of all nations, decided then and there that love at first sight was not a thing of fairytale. No, nothing was a fairytale in her presence.

Disclaimer: I, Trans-Siberian Railway, do not own Hetalia: Axis Powers, Russia/Ivan, America/Alfred, or Snegurochka. (She's a very popular character in Russian folklore, so while I've put my own spin on things, I can't claim her.) Please don't sue.

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><p>Snegurochka was born sometime in the middle of a raging blizzard in January, the orphan of Mother Nature's more unseemly human beings, living out her first few moments in the midnight swell of Kostroma. She was abandoned on a stoop in the snow, tossed by fate into the hands of an older couple blessed by kindness, cursed with barrenness. It was probably with admiration and incredulity that her adopted parents named her Snegurochka: "snow maiden," the pristine winter angel of 1800s Russia.<p>

And for the first and only time in his long life, Russia was thankful for Belarus's insanity. Without her obsession, her need to drive her brother into her arms, Russia might never have disguised himself as a young shepherd and fled Moscow without so much as a map or an extended escape plan. He might never have wandered upon beautiful Kostroma, its stunning cathedrals, or its birch forests. He might never have met his Snegurochka.

He thanked his sister forevermore.

For Snegurochka as a young woman was nothing short of extraordinary. And Russia, probably the most self-destructive of all nations, decided then and there that love at first sight was not a thing of fairytale. No, nothing was a fairytale in her presence.

Russia was wandering the Kostroma countryside, disguised in shepherd Sunday clothes, admiring the natural beauty that was his country, when he first saw her. At the end of a snowy, birch-lined road, a small cottage lay in peace with the sun. An older woman with a boisterous laugh was sweeping the wooden porch, her husband emerging from the door with a smile. And there, along the wooden fence, an angel in the winter light—

Ivan stared.

Standing along the road, brushing sugar-soft snow from the fence beams, was a young woman, no more than sixteen or seventeen years old. Cloaked in the cerulean sheen of a Sunday silence, she had about her a serenity one can only find in the silence of an iced forest. Yet despite her fox furs, her little mittens, she looked no colder than the sun, smiling with the bitter chill—and what a beautiful smile she had. A little pink half-crescent—the only pink that dared mar her winter-white glow—upturned just so…just enough to capture Ivan's heart in a delighted little thrill, with the warm happiness of a winter birdsong.

He took a long, ragged gasp of freezing air—and she, _she_, she heard him, and she looked up, and Ivan wanted to melt into the snow at her feet, the way those eyes gazed upon him. A sharp blue iris, the color of a melted lake—and then there were two, one mitten pushing her champagne-yellow curls behind her ear, and they looked at him in wonderment, amusement.

"Good morning, stranger," she called to him, and her voice rang with winter bells and hot steam.

And Ivan gave the most genuine smile he, or the world, ever knew until then. And it was for her, he realized. And as long as she lived, it would always be for her.

"And to you." Never breaking her gaze, he slipped off the mitten from one of her hands and pressed a kiss, tender and gentle, to the back of her palm. She smiled, and Ivan feared his heartbeat—so fast, so strong—would burn through his lips.

"Ivan Braginsky."

"Snegurochka," she said.

He inhaled her name like incense, and Ivan might have held her hand a moment too long to be appropriate. But her smile lasted just the same.

"Well, Snegurochka," he breathed, "could you perhaps spare a room for a wandering boy?"

A high, twinkling laugh, and Snegurochka—a beautiful name, the perfect name—took his arm and led him towards her little house. He squeezed her hand, chilly and winter-soft. "We could spare much more than that, my friend. Please, come inside."

_If you could spare your heart_, thought Ivan, _I would need nothing else._

And, quite suddenly, it was the truest thought he ever had.

* * *

><p>His room for the day turned into a week, then a month, and, with the help of his all-natural Russian charm (and work-happy muscle), procured for himself a live-in employment to Snegurochka's father. Not that he would not offer Ivan a job in the first place; if anything, Snegurochka inherited her blistering hospitality, her impeccable kindness, and her compassion from her adopted parents. Fyodor and Anna gave him only the most necessary of suspicions when he came in, tall and starry-eyed and holding their precious daughter like she was the goddess of all, but other than that…Anna had "good husband" senses, and Fyodor caught on.<p>

For once, it wasn't an act. Every endearment, every modest, polite gesture, every smile and wink and kind word—there was a purpose behind them. Ivan's kindheartedness was as real as the winters were long during those times with Snegurochka, with her family.

Ivan was becoming accustomed to country life, so long was he living in Snegurochka's house. His times with them were some of the most poignant memories Ivan possessed: scents, tastes, the thoughts and feelings flowing through him and the diamond bands of recollection—

But all of Snegurochka's family…they each reserved a snowflake-delicate cavern in his heart, all of them dewed with warmth, devoid of echoes, dancing in his pulse like the sweetest of fires.

Her father, for one—

"Ivan, my boy, tell me about your parents," Fyodor asked one day. They were outside in the blistering chill of a winter afternoon, chopping firewood together. Fyodor was getting old then. But, like the sturdy stubbornness of the birch trees guarding his home and his family in the dead of a Russian winter, Fyodor grew burly the weaker his body became. Almost like an indignant stare against the biting winds. Ivan liked that about Fyodor. His resilience at his age was admirable. It was too bad Ivan was too old to look up to him. What prospects were left for a country hundreds of years old?

"There is not much to tell, sir," he answered quietly, letting the quick slice-and-chop of the ax do what little information there was to say.

Fyodor frowned. "Sad, that is."

Ivan looked up, tilted his head in genuine confusion. "Why is that?"

"That any deserving parents would ignore their own child," he said. "Their own _son_. And for a young man as honest and good as you, Ivan…Well." Fyodor clapped him on the back with a hardy smile, and Ivan felt what his physical age decreed: Young. Restless. Yearning for the affection of a proud parent.

A parent, _a father_, Ivan never had.

Ivan felt his chest swell at the pride in Fyodor's weathered features. "Well. They know not what strength they have brought into this country."

Ah, and then there was Anna. Aging, vibrant Anna, who took the blistering cold to her body with a pained smile and said nothing of it. Ivan's best memory of her was in their den, the warmest place in the house. All walls were padded with some sort of animal fur, the stone and wooden floors covered with bear rugs, all to keep out the cold. Coupled with a stone fireplace and more blankets than Ivan had in his own estate, he always felt safest in that room. Warm. Homey. Full of character.

Very much like Anna, and that special memory of her voice, so singular in that one room that one night, when Ivan did not mind if he lived out the rest of his life in the flickering firelight that was Anna's maternal touch.

"Here, Vanya," Anna had said, coaxing his mouth open with a stroke of her thumb. It was night, and it was cold, and Ivan was sick. Very, very sick. It was not the sickness of his country, no. But it was human sickness, and it was just as worse. His throat burned. His muscles ached. His heart cried out in weakened despair.

With a whimper befitting a much younger child, Ivan let himself be coddled. He opened his mouth, and Anna spooned a broth too delicious to be considered medicine down his dry throat. It tasted like something beautiful.

She pressed a cool hand to his forehead and sighed. "Fret not, my dear." Anna smiled. Kissed his cheek like Ukraine used to, back when they had no one but themselves. Ivan closed his eyes under the sensation. "God will not be coming for you anytime soon, so long as I am around."

It was love, he remembered as he drifted into fever-dreams. Her broth tasted like love.

And Ivan loved them. He loved Fyodor. He loved Anna.

And then there was Snegurochka.

* * *

><p>Where, indeed, did that beautiful young woman fit inside Russia's small, comatose heart? Where could she find room within its pulsing caverns, hollow with fine memories, and not only worm her way in, no, but stormed? Contracted and pulled and ripped the thin sinews to shreds, wove them with her eyes once more into a coiled mass of flesh and blood. And turned something so ugly, so weak, into the perfect pumping powerhouse Ivan always wanted, always needed.<p>

Because he looked at the world around him, his world, and marveled that he could overlook something as beautiful as his own country for so long.

He found himself on the roof a lot those days, unable to sleep, wrapped up in quilts and just watching the universe twinkle overhead. Why, Ivan was not entirely sure. Maybe he just liked stars back then. But it was comforting, being out there, hidden under the heavens. Protecting something.

He didn't mind the cold, for once. He could sleep there, if he wanted—

"Do not fall asleep."

Ivan jerked up, all poetic thoughts aside, and had to shoot his boot out to catch the side of the roof before he went tumbling off. A soft chuckle helped him regain his balance, and he turned to the open window at his side in full blush.

Snegurochka was there, shoulders wrapped tightly in a shawl, and smiled up at him like nothing could have pleased her more. Ivan swallowed his garbled breaths and gripped the edge of the roof.

Another short laugh and she held out her hand, beckoning him. "Sorry for startling you…"

"No," he choked out, "'M fine."

"Hmm." She dropped her hand to the windowsill, letting her own twinkling gaze seek out the pale indigo swath of sky. Ivan shivered; transfixed, mostly, by the way her own icy eyes brought in the splendor of the night with just a look.

Then she was looking at him, and her mouth was moving, and Ivan was too caught up in the galaxies swirling through her pupils he…didn't hear. And that perplexed him for a moment. Because he wasn't like that.

"I…err…pardon?"

Snegurochka rolled her eyes, and the Milky Way shifted into saucers. "I asked if you liked the stars. And if you had a death wish on them, falling asleep out here like that."

Ivan has to stop himself from barking out one of his old-timer laughs and tell her, Well, General Winter would like to have a go at that, but then remembered he was now Ivan Braginsky, orphaned shepherd boy. Not Ivan Braginsky, Russia Incarnate.

But instead he released a soft, smothered chuckle, and said, "It would not be the first time. I am…used to the cold by now."

Snegurochka frowned, and Ivan feared he might have annoyed her, until she set her small hands on the edge of the windowsill and began to pull herself out into the cold air, onto the roof.

Ivan's eyes widened. "What are you doing? You could fall!"

Her knee, already scaling the edge of the window, slipped against a patch of black ice and Ivan lunged. Wrapping his arms around Snegurochka's middle, Ivan yanked her from the edge of the roof with a shout, and the two fell back against the window's flat outcropping, steadied and safe. Or, Snegurochka was; Ivan had to take several, deep breaths to calm his heart, now so big, pounding like a meaty ax against his ribs.

Then he felt arms go around his neck, a face pressed into the turn of his throat, and he held her shivering body closer, rubbing his hand down her back.

It was enough to make him angry. But not enough for him to break her.

"Never—" he gasped, wrapping the shawl more tightly around her shoulders, "never do that again."

"All right…" Her breathing slowed, and Ivan sighed.

"You could have fallen."

"I know."

"Then why? Why would you do something like that?"

He pulled back enough to see her eyes, half-lidded and a little red, fixed at a point somewhere below his eyes. His nose, maybe. Or his lips. She looked peaceful, like she often did when Ivan caught her staring at winter-glazed birch trees.

"You always look far away, Ivan," she whispered. "Even when you talk with Mama and Papa…your eyes keep looking through things, like you expect something else behind everything. But then I saw you out here, looking at the stars, and…You looked…content. But only with the stars. And sometimes…for…"

Here, she turned away, and Ivan swallowed the lump of something turning in his stomach. He braved touching the edge of her cheekbone, licking his lips as the sheen of red over her ears.

"For?" he prompted.

But she shook her head. "It does not matter. I barely know you and…it would be inappropriate of me." Snegurochka breathed. "Please take me back inside."

Ivan sighed.

"What?" she said, glancing up from under her iridescent lashes—and the moon dared to outshine the glow in her eyes.

"Funny," Ivan chuckled, smiling down at her with ease. "You. Making such an effort to join me out here in my death wish. And I lose that same courage to winter, it seems."

"Oh, Ivan," she said, a quick, moonlight twinkle of mischief in her eyes that made Ivan bluster, "winter and I have quite the relationship. And we have come to an agreement, just recently. Just now, actually."

"And what would that be?"

She leaned up as far as she could go in the confines of Ivan's protective grasp and pressed her forehead to his chin, breathing against his neck. Snegurochka hummed a laugh, and her tiny breaths melted the night crystals on Ivan's throat. "You come down from your death wish with me," she whispered, "and winter will never bother you again."

Ivan smiled against her hair, feeling something light and warm fill the cavern in his chest, heart seeking out the tumble with hers.

"That sounds reasonable."

* * *

><p>For a good few weeks into his new lifestyle, Ivan frightened himself at the passion that suddenly overtook his heart and body. Never was there a moment Snegurochka did not cloud every one of his senses. He ate only when she offered, listened only to her quiet laughter over the crackling hiss of the fire, slept only when her own breaths evened like a winter night. And then he dreamed, and it was only of her, and they were vivid dreams. Some harmless; a dream-haze of her face, maybe, or her voice. Others had him reeling through his work for days, flustered to the point of red-faced mumblings at breakfasts and dinners.<p>

Because in those dreams Ivan felt complete. Snegurochka was _his_ Snegurochka, and she never backed down from claiming Ivan as hers all the same. But unlike his sister, his Snegurochka was not beastly or manic about her love—together they wove a possessiveness that was pure, kind, respectful. Loving as only they could be together.

It was the only time in his life Ivan could see himself living a human life with no regret or animosity. He could see himself throw away his country's mantle and settle in a little farmhouse near the birch forests and a sunflower field, his beautiful, forever-lovely bride at his side. What was more…it was the only time Ivan ever thought about children, and only because they would be the fruits of his and Snegurochka's love and nothing less. He thought they would have twins. A boy and a girl. And they would be just as lovely as she.

That these dreams came so suddenly with a daytime ferocity embarrassed him, even when the family wasn't around to see his face flare up like an adolescent new to romance. (Though in many respects…Ivan was.)

Drawbacks aside, he was more than willing to accept the blossoming friendship he and Snegurochka created. After that fateful wish on the roof, Ivan sought her out first thing in the morning, sharing tea, stories, and their dreams. They pretended they didn't notice Anna and Fyodor spying on them, peeking around the kitchen corner, conspiring like old friends playing matchmakers.

Ivan didn't mind. Not when he and Snegurochka were learning so much about one another.

It was no surprise that she loved winter. Despite the aches in her mother's bones and her father's groans about game and firewood, Snegurochka reveled in the frosty glow of the December solstice. Nothing pleased her more than feeling the chilled north winds in her curls, walking through the birch forests at blue twilight with her eyes closed—believing, at times, that she was some lost snow princess who finally found her way back home.

All of this, she told Ivan with…not a faraway look. A reverent look, sparkling with crystal blue bliss. A soft smile, one Ivan wished he could trace his thumb over, just to make sure it was real. And he thought—_What a beautiful girl. What a beautiful person._

The best part, though, was when she looked at him from beneath her lashes, broken away from her silent reverie…and the passion in her smiling gaze never ceased once they found his violet-blue eyes, blown wide with amazement.

One day, Snegurochka reached across the kitchen table and traced the edges of his knuckles.

"You look like winter, Ivan," she said. "It looks good on you."

That _thing_ she did. That thing about her that drove Ivan up every wall in his mind and body, that made him swallow like a dying man. That made him feel whole…because… Then he let his palm open like a wild, shining sunflower, life- and love-lines deeper than ever, and enclosed her soft, tender hand in his.

They both glanced out the window together. Snegurochka's eyes widened, a foreshadow of a smile sparkling in her big blue eyes.

"Oh, look! A blizzard."

Ivan followed her gaze. Saw what his country—what _he_—was capable of. Fast, whirling white winds. Marvelous ice patterns smacking against the windowpane. A veritable wasteland outside those walls. Ivan hated it for so long. Hated himself. Who could ever love a place like this?

(She did.)

Ivan had an idea.

She looked back, and their thoughts finally synched. With a pair of mischievous grins, they jumped from the kitchen table, fingers still entwined, and flew out of their home towards the winter-swirled birch forests. Jumping. Laughing. Darting through birch trees, chasing gusts of snowflakes, staring straight up into the sky, where the soldier-straight birches gave the illusion of a many-pointed star, fighting through the snow into a blinding-white sky. And blinding it was. Ivan could barely see a couple yards in front of him.

He closed his eyes. The wind whipped his hair into a frenzy, and he felt his greatcoat billow out behind him. Felt crystals stud the edge of his eyelashes. Smelled the crisp freshness of a pure, white blizzard. And Ivan listened to the silent roar of the winds blocking out the edges of his skin, listened to General Winter's distant sighs, and heard as Snegurochka once more wrap their fingers together.

"It is beautiful," she said. "Truly beautiful."

Ivan opened his eyes. Snegurochka's smile awaited him.

"So many people call Russian winters bleak and cruel," she said. "But none of them understand true beauty, Ivan. Here, everything is real. The world becomes something new and powerful covered in snow. And if hardship makes it cruel, then it is the only thing that shows us what is truly important…and it is this time of year that we see."

Ivan felt tears freeze in his eyes.

Snegurochka tipped her head to the side, and the snow seemed to sing in her eyes with passionate earnest. "Do you agree, Vanechka?"

Ivan lifted her up and spun her around in the snow, and she let out a high, shining laugh that made the snowflakes erupt in silver, and he brought her head down for a deep, warm kiss that brought Ivan's entire life to a beautiful halt. Because he lived for her now.

Snegurochka returned it with the same quiet ferocity, and when they pulled back, noses still pressed together, she whispered against his lips, "Vanechka."

"I love you."

The birch forest roared around them.

* * *

><p>Ivan had never been this happy. Or loved.<p>

Days after their escapade in the blizzard, Ivan felt light everywhere. The world, the winter, the days. His head and his heart. Tangible and intangible alike, everything in and around Ivan's being seemed inconsequential—no. Everything seemed right wherever anything was. A bird chirped, Fyodor laughed, or Ivan smiled—now, deep inside the recesses of his now crystalline heart, he knew it was meant to be. The world had its purpose, because Ivan found his.

Yet he knew, as winter raged around him, that staying here forever, marrying Snegurochka, having the life and the children he dreamed of every night could not happen without compromise. Somewhere in the depths of Ivan's now blissfully happy thoughts, Russia was calling him.

Then he remembered. He was Russia. Ivan Braginsky, yes, but Russia through and through. The land of suffering, cruelty, and astonishing resilience. His people were strong creatures, no fear whatsoever. Ivan knew this. He also knew that the end of Russia was never coming any time soon. Which meant Snegurochka—

He would be living his life without Snegurochka, come her mortal time.

The realization made Anna and Fyodor, unaware of the cause of Ivan's sudden madness, confine him to his room for several days. And the only person who could get him to eat and sleep was Snegurochka, of whom he decided was necessary to actually be in his bed when he fell into fitful nightmares, where Snegurochka's body was torn apart by rats and maggots.

So he roused her one night, sputtering with fever and ghosts of people not even dead, and while she grabbed his head and whispered beautiful nonsense into his sweaty hair, Ivan told her everything. Everything. As he fell asleep nestled against her chest, her hands working through his fingers and neck, Ivan told her.

"I am Russia. I am your country."

Then he blacked out.

* * *

><p>Unfortunately—and this could have gone both ways—Ivan and Snegurochka remembered everything. As sleepy and fevered as he was, Ivan woke after that incident, saw Snegurochka's bemused, thoughtful expression, and understood. So he told her once more, the two of them curled under quilts in Ivan's bed, Snegurochka shaking against his body.<p>

"So…you are immortal?"

"As long as Russia remains," he explained. "Then yes. I am immortal."

"Ah…"

"Please believe me."

"No," she said, looking up at him with eyes so calm, Ivan wondered if the blizzard had ended already. "I _do_ believe you. I just—"

Ivan grabbed her shaking hands, the same ones going to cover her sudden tears, and pressed them both to his lips, kissing them hard enough to hurt.

Her panic ceased. Her tears did not.

It broke Ivan's heart to see her like that.

"But I will…and you…"

"Do not think of it," he growled.

Snegurochka shook her head and didn't stop. "You will always be young…and next to me—"

Ivan shot up, taking Snegurochka with him, and shook her as roughly as he dared. "Listen to me. Listen. No matter how old you get, no matter what happens, you will be with me. You have my love, forever and always, age be damned. Do you understand? Do you?"

She sniffed.

"Do you?"

"Y-Yes."

He took her face in his hands. "Then never doubt my love for you."

She said she didn't. Ivan believed her.

A few days later, Anna and Fyodor came bursting into his room, donned in coats and lanterns, and said they could not find Snegurochka anywhere.

Ivan grabbed his pack and ran for the woods.

* * *

><p>It was not uncommon for Snegurochka to disappear in the birch forests, but as far as Ivan and her parents were concerned, these outings never lasted more than a day. Lasting a day plus an afternoon was not her routine…and in the midst of a Russian winter, dangerous. She was not like Ivan; these winters were a part of him. He could last out here for weeks naked and not worry.<p>

But Snegurochka could not. As much as she loved winter and snow and wind, she was still human. So very, delicately human. She would not last another half day.

He could barely make out tracks in the snow, hardly knew the forest as well as Snegurochka did, but he ran and screamed her name nonetheless. And as he careened through the wilderness, panting and wild-eyed, Ivan had to wonder: What happened? What did he say? What did he miss? Why would she do this? Why?

Ivan had to give himself a good slap every now and then. Thoughts like that would not help him find Snegurochka, not when the afternoon was starting to wane into crystallized twilight, not when Nature was claiming young women as hers—

What?

Ivan slowed to a walk, mesmerized, as he came upon a small clearing edged with thick birch trees and pines and dead bushes. He knew this clearing, felt it within him often. As unadorned as it was, this place was always a source of life in Ivan's mind, the birthplace of magic and Russian fairytales, where Nature and General Winter often met and laughed about little things, created stories about the seasons and animals and love together. Even now, in the dead of winter, the last rays of sunset broke through the tops of the trees, bathing the snow in burnished orange light.

Ivan—rather, Russia—was born here, and he had never found it since. But he always felt its essence now and then.

But he never expected to see Snegurochka standing in the middle of the clearing, looking up at the sky with a soft, loving smile. She cradled a silver fox in her arms without fear, and in turn the little vixen nuzzled under her neck, yipping for a pet every now and then.

Ivan felt that same kind of magic flowing from Snegurochka's presence and could not help but awe.

"Snegurochka?"

The fox turned towards him with another, more defensive yip, and leapt from Snegurochka's arms and fled into the underbrush. But Snegurochka only giggled and turned towards him with the most beautiful smile Ivan had ever seen. She took a step towards him and opened her arms.

"Ivan," she said, and her voice twinkled together like a symphony of icicles, "I have done it."

Ivan swallowed and covered the distance between them with just a few strides. And just as he found her eyes, his entire body felt overwhelmed with…with…

_The clearing,_ he thought. _She feels like the clearing._

"I have done it," she repeated, and spread her arms out and he went into them, already knowing, and so, so— "I found her. I found Nature, and I told her everything about you. And me. Us. I told her I wanted to live as long as these forests, that I would devote myself to them, so long as we would never live a day without each other."

Ivan brought her body closer, breathing in her new life, her new being. Because Snegurochka was more than Snegurochka. She was the twinkling in the frozen branches, the soft lull in winter mornings, the luminescent brightness of the snow when the light decided to play. She was everything she ever wanted to be, what she was born to be. She was a snow spirit, a new deity in Russian folklore that Ivan would make sure to pass down for centuries. And Ivan loved her all the more for it, and his heart burned at the weight of it all.

Because, now, they could be together.

But he had to ask anyway, if only to hear her new voice once more, "Why?"

"The forest," she whispered against his lips, "this country. _You_. Everything about this land, these people…I love them so much, Ivan. And now that I know who you are…" She threw her arms around his neck, breathing into his scarf. "Now, I could be with you forever."

Ivan reached up and held her cheek close to his, caressing down her face until he could press a firm, gentle kiss to her lips, tasting of snowflakes and licorice and _love_. Pure, pure love. With his other hand, he let go of her waist to reach into his pack, pulling out a silver-white fur cap he had planned to give her days ago, and placed it over her champagne curls. With a giggle on both parts, Ivan once again held her face in his hands, rubbing a thumb over her cheek. And she smiled at him, for him. Ivan kissed the tip of her nose with a smile.

"I have never wanted anything more," he whispered. "But I worry you will be too cold out here in the wilderness."

Snegurochka chuckled. "Me? Too cold?" She pecked him on the cheek with a giggle. "You know me better than that, _dorogoy_."

* * *

><p>But that ecstasy was not to last. Ivan should have known.<p>

"Ivan," General Winter hissed, "you must release her, or she shall die."

"_What_?"

"She is melting from the inside," Winter murmured, gathering about the pair a cyclone of sub-zero winds—to slow the process down, perhaps. "Her heart—her love for you is killing her."

Ivan stared down at Snegurochka's face—her dear, beautiful face—and found it contorted in pain, her mouth open in a violent show of silent agony. She clung to his coat, her hands shaking, sweating, pushing her face into his chest…and then she howled, and the forests jumped at her voice. She pushed away from Ivan's body, buried her face in the snow. Cried into her red, melting hands.

Ivan reached out for her.

"No!" Winter bellowed, and with a mighty gust of snow and ice, launched Ivan backwards against a tree with a pained huff. General Winter glared at him from his post, wrapping Ivan's crying love in a blanket of snowflakes and dew. "Foolish boy. I warned you."

"V-Vanechka…" Snegurochka gasped. "Ivan."

He crawled to her on his hands and knees, tears freezing down his face. Her shaking hand reached for his through the snow, and his to hers, wanting, needing, outstretching their desire into the thinnest threads of ephemeral bonds. Her blue-red eyes, the only part of her devoid of ache, called to him evermore.

_Please_, he begged to no one, to everyone, to himself most of all, _do not take her from me. I will die, please, I will give up my life, everything. Just do not take her from me._

"W-What…" he sobbed, "what can I do? What can I do?"

Winter stared down at them, eyes devoid of compassion…but a moment look longer, and they were not filled with condescension. Pity, perhaps. Pity that things should turn out like this.

"Leave."

"Is there nothing—?"

"I am sorry, Ivan. You are too warm for her heart." Winter closed his eyes. "Do not worry, Russia. Nature and I will take care of her."

Ivan wanted to scream.

But he wanted Snegurochka to stop screaming, too. He wanted her to stay as lovely as she always was, and as beautiful a person as the one he fell in love with.

But to let go of her…to let go of one of the few people who gave him so much life…his own insides were burning. Burning and dying. And Ivan was sure the heart this girl worked so hard to defrost was gone. As dead as the love of his life, if he didn't leave soon.

So, with a breaking, dying heart, and a muffled whimper, he kissed her hand once more with the most passion he could muster—and ran. Ran as fast as he could.

"Ivan!"

He dared to look back. But all he could see was a single spot of blue, perhaps one of her eyes, as her voice rang through the forest.

"I love you!"

That sound. A long, shattering crack, spilling blood and icy splinters through Ivan's spine, his chest. In his mind he saw the Ivan Braginsky of late, a young, robust boy. A happy child, smiling and laughing and living his life in Snegurochka's eyes. Seeing within them the life he had always wanted to lead. And it was for her. It was always for her.

The boy that was Ivan Braginsky howled like a wounded animal, being forever dragged from his mate.

And Russia's broken heart left a trail for the desolate on his death march to Moscow.

* * *

><p>AN: Such is the story of Russia and Snegurochka. The next, and last, part will be uploaded, so long as people want it. c:

**And please, please review. I know it's annoying. But these stories are my babies, and I like seeing them get talked about. c:**

Thank you for reading!


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